


Tomorrows Another Day

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: NCIS: New Orleans
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Season 3, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 22:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12118356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: Coda to season three episode "Follow the Money"- Chris puts King to bed.





	Tomorrows Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> This scene takes place after Season 3 "Follow the Money".

The sweet sound of moody blues drifts out of the apartment as Chris makes his way back up. It’s late in the evening, the office locked up for the night. He’d sent Roy home shortly after Gregorio and Percy had left knowing they’d all had a couple of long days. They deserved a break with how close they’d come only to have the victory ripped from their hands. He was bone weary tired in a way he hadn’t been in awhile. His eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, mind starting to shut down, ready for the nearest horizontal surface. It wouldn’t be that easy.

An off-key note echoes harshly through the large empty space. Chris winces. He pushes through the door as the notes falter again then stop completely. King hasn’t moved since he left, still seated at the piano, back bent like the weight of the world has become too much, crushing the strong man until there’s only this helplessness left.

The only difference Chris can spot is that the bottle sitting on top of the piano is now empty, the tumbler in King’s hand on its way there.

“Thought you went home.”

King looks every single one of his years as he glances back at Chris. The light in his eyes has dulled alarmingly, the lines around his eyes no longer filled with laughter and mirth. Chris crosses to him and sets the glass of water he brought up next to the bottle on the piano.

“You know me King, always sleep better with you beside me.” He plays it off, gently pries the tumbler from Kings fingers and takes it into the washroom to dump it down the sink. He leaves the glass there and comes back out to see Kings eyes have drifted closed, from weariness probably but Chris also knows he’s reliving the night and everything that went so wrong.

He touches Kings shoulder, gently, carefully, letting him know he’s there and when he has the mans attention he presses the water glass into his hands. King chuckles, the sound lacking any warmth, but downs the glass obediently, relinquishing it when he’s done. The glass gets left on top of the piano. Chris kneels between Kings knees, runs his hands down his calves, holds his ankles gently as he works first one boot off and then the other. Socks are next and he stuffs them into the shoes to be dealt with later. He rises, pulling King up with him, quick to balance him as he stumbles. Together they make it to the bed and King holds onto Chris’ shoulders as he undoes his belt buckle, then his pants, sliding them down over his thighs. He crouches again, helps King step out of them and then tosses them towards the laundry hamper in the far corner. They don’t quite make it but Chris ignores them. His touch is gentle, a light caress as he slides Kings shirt off. It joins the pants in the heap on the floor.

King doesn’t say anything as he pulls away to slide into the unmade bed. He curls on his side, back to Chris, face buried in his pillow. His breaths are shallow, shoulders shaking as he tries to hold everything in.

Chris grabs the water glass of the piano and refills it, before placing it next to King, within easy reach. He strips, balls his clothes up and tosses them into the hamper, picking Kings up and adding them to the bin. He flicks the light off, navigating the familiar shapes in the darkness easily.

The bed dips under his weight as he slides in behind King. He doesn’t hesitate, reaching out, draping his arm across Kings chest, pressing up against his back, knowing that despite everything he’ll be welcomed. He presses a kiss to the bared shoulder, feels the shuddering exhale that King releases. He presses his nose to the back of his neck, holds him tight and tries to will some of the tension from him.

It’s no surprise when his breathing evens out, when he stops holding himself as stiffly. Even in sleep he’s wound tight but its nothing compared to before. His own head is growing heavier, exhaustion having seeped into his muscles, his bones. King twitches in his arms, murmurs something he can’t make out—it will be a long night filled with terrors.

He shuts his eyes, breathes deep the familiar scent of him, the familiar feeling of his body pressed close in his arms.

Some how he manages to sleep.


End file.
